


Appropriate Velocity: The Science of a Kiss

by convolutedConcussion



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Author Is Allergic To Using Tags Correctly, Derek Doesn't Share Often But When He Does He Goes A Little Overboard, Derek Needs To Use His Words, It's A Feelings Thing, M/M, Peter No One Wants Your Commentary, Peter is a Sassy Bitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-13
Updated: 2012-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-14 03:30:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/convolutedConcussion/pseuds/convolutedConcussion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The general <i>aim</i> had been to kiss Stiles without braining him on the window and without breaking either of their noses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Appropriate Velocity: The Science of a Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> My friend, Jeej, wanted fluff of the Sterek variety.
> 
> I wanted to write about how Peter is a sassy bitch.
> 
> Set in some indefinite period after season 2 during the summer? Eh, I don't know.

“Well,” Peter drawls, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table and ignoring Derek’s scowl.  “Let’s start with this:  Where did things go wrong?”

“Oh, let me just think about that,” the other bites, pacing before him.  “I’m not really _sure,_ but I’m gonna take a wild stab in the dark and say somehow this comes back to _you_ giving Scott the Bite, thus involving his spastic best friend, and then involving me.  I’m gonna go ahead and say this is probably your fault.”

“You know, kid, I gotta say, there comes a time in a young man’s life, happens to all of us, don’t get me wrong, but there comes a time when every man must realize that he can no longer blame his predecessors for his actions,” his uncle responds coolly, grinning almost meanly.  “And, I’m sorry to say, you passed that time about five years ago.”

Wheeling around, Derek growls and goes through a series of highly complex hand-gestures and grunts before pausing and scratching both hands through his hair.  “Look, just—just shut up, you are so not helping.”  Peter looks entirely too pleased with the whole affair—claiming to have smelt embarrassment and defeat on him when he walked in this morning, wearing his wounded pride like a coat—to be anything but a nuisance.

_“God,_ I will be _so_ much happier when you and that kid are together and you have a healthy outlet for all that _frustration_ because you are _no fun_ these days,” he grumbles.  Really, he’s been spending too much time with these teenagers.

Derek is about to comment on this very development in the man’s already pretty flawed personality when Isaac strolls into the living room, thumbs flying over the keyboard of his phone.  The kid collapses on the couch next to—and nearly on top of—the older man without really glancing up.  There’s a moment in which the Alpha can’t really think of anything to say (or rather he can think of _a lot_ of things to say but each of them is fighting for supremacy right behind his lips and that sort of dispute takes time to sort out) and Peter just looks slightly impressed.  Then, looking up under his mop of curly hair, Isaac gives a lopsided smile and asks, “So are we talking about your abortive attempt at kissing Stilinski?”

“’Abortive!’” cries Peter, clapping his hands together once and then squeezing the teen’s shoulder.  “Good word, _good_ word, SAT word, right?”

Looking embarrassed and a little proud of himself, Isaac looks down and mumbles something about studying but both seem to remember what exactly is going on there when Derek’s hard, guttural growl rips through their little moment.  “How did _you_ even find out about this?” he demands, eying the Beta in annoyance.

Taking a deep breath, his response is, “Well, Stiles freaked out and told Scott, who, yanno, can’t not tell everything he ever hears _ever_ to Allison, who called Lydia, who told Jackson, who told Erica, who, um, may have mentioned it to me?”

He sputters and finally manages, “It’s been _twenty minutes.”_

“Dude,” Isaac says pointedly, looking first to Peter and then back at Derek, “It’s _summer._   We’re _bored._ ”  It’s not until after he’s finished talking that he realizes that maybe calling your Alpha _dude_ isn’t the best idea ever.  Maybe because said Alpha is _snarling_ at him.

“Oh-kay, alright, we get it, you’re frustrated,” Peter placates, pulling a face at Isaac.  “You should maybe calm down and have a seat because you _really_ can’t afford to be attacking and killing members of your own pack.”  He must interpret Derek’s look correctly because he adds, after a moment, “Bone-breaking and general _maiming_ are also not acceptable forms of discipline.”

Much to the teenager’s relief, Derek gives his uncle another, less fierce look before taking a chair.  He rolls his shoulders and starts, “For the record, I still say this is your fault.”

\---

They hadn’t even been doing anything dangerous, which was kind of a change for them.  Stiles’ Jeep had simply broken down and no one else—“And I mean, no one, man, I called everyone before I called you, I swear,” he’d said, not very reassuringly—had answered his call.  Really, it wasn’t that surprising that the Jeep had finally died.  Poor thing had been brained by Peter (and partially disemboweled by Peter), and Erica had none-too-gently ripped out the starter (and then smashed it over his head, which, even Derek could admit, was pretty cruel).  After such abuse, who could blame it for dying?  Sure, perhaps it could have chosen a more convenient time.  But all things considered, after all the things that Jeep had gotten them through, it really could have chosen a _much_ more inconvenient time.  So Derek was having a bit of a hard time mourning its death as Stiles probably thought he should.  “Why do you smell like dog?” he asked suddenly, breaking into the teen’s diatribe about the pack and their lack of deference for his vehicle.

There was a pause, brief, and he could see out of the corner of his eye the way Stiles’ lips worked.  It was obvious he was trying to hold back the flood of dog-related werewolf jokes and it took a moment to get over.  Then he answered, “I—I was at Dr Deaton’s and he was letting me play with some of the new puppies while he got everything ready for me and then I… may or may not let all the other dogs out too.”  The last bit was said in a rush and if the other found that kind of endearing he certainly wouldn’t admit so under pain of death.

“What were you even doing there?” he murmured after a minute of Stiles fiddling with the radio absently and pushing the controls for the window so that it was _up_ even though it was all the way _up_ (which, by the way, among the list of Stiles’ Annoying Nervous Habits that Derek might have catalogued, is pretty close to the top).  “I know I’m pretty out of practice with this whole _summer vacation_ thing but aren’t you supposed to be lounging around, being a general drain on society and your father, something like that?”  At this he cracked a smile and looked over.

Stiles was looking at him like he was an alien.  “Don’t— _don’t_  you _tease_ me!” he cried mockingly, thrusting a shaky finger at him.  He slumped back in his seat and smirked to himself, yanking the backpack he’d shoved between his feet up into his lap and mumbling, “I had the good doctor get me some stuff, yanno, like werewolf stuff, and tell me some werewolf stuff, so that I’ll never be faced with the decision of whether or not the situation warrants _hacking someone’s arm off_ ever again because, honestly, I’ve got enough on my plate right now without being having to deal with impromptu amputations, thank you very much.”

“So, are scheduled amputations still on the table?”  That earned him a quick, surprised laugh.

“That’s two in a row, buddy,” Stiles praised, shock evident.  “Careful, there, or someone’s gonna think you’ve grown a sense of humor and that would just be unacceptable.  Who would believe your death threats, then?  Who would you slam into walls?  You could try, but as soon as you turned your back they’d whisper, they’d say, ‘Oh, that Hale boy, such a rough exterior, you’d never know how sweet he is just below.  Why, I even heard he comforted a sick child the other day and—‘”

“Stiles.”

“Sorry,” the teen mumbled, twisting his fingers and shifting uncomfortably.  “But yeah unless we’ve exhausted every possible resource in _this bag_ and Scott is nowhere to be heard from we are not even _thinking_ about arm-cutting-offery, alright?  Like as in the _moment_ you even _breathe_ anything close to ‘cut or die,’ _I will walk out._ ”

“Fair enough, but in that case if I _do_ mention something like that, you have to do it with no trying to talk your way out of it.”

Stiles groaned.

\---

“I’m sorry, did the part where you went wrong happen to have anything to do with the fact that you guys were talking about severing your arm?” interrupts Peter, looking personally affronted.  “I mean, I know I’ve had my share of bad pick-ups in my day.  I mean, _I got around_ , so yeah but… how exactly does negotiating when it’s appropriate to broach the subject of chopping off a limb seem like a romantic situation to you?”

Isaac snorts and mumbles, “Because it’s _him.”_

“No, no, I know he knows better.”

Derek rolls his eyes and says scathingly, “Well, if I could get a little less input from the peanut gallery.”  It earns him a few snickers but they at least allow him to continue.

\---

It’s a commonly accepted fact that Stiles we-don’t-talk-about-the-first-name Stilinski rambles.  It’s not always nerves, but it is nerves a lot of the time.  Sometimes he just needs to fill the emptiness.  It’s like he’s scared that if it’s quiet for too long the silence will just swallow him whole.  Other times it’s like he’s just babbling out of habit.  And then there are times when he’s actually got something important to say but it’s like his mind’s got to go on this little detour.  He usually circles back without prompting but that little mental footpath has to be explored, no matter how pointless it may seem.  He would never tell anyone this—torture would never drag this out of him—but Derek had grown to actually like that about Stiles.  Sometimes he listened without seeming to listen to what the younger man said, others he just let the familiar sound of Stiles’ voice wash over him.  As he drove the teen home, his attention faded in and out.  He caught, without the aid of ultrasensitive hearing, when his voice rose on approaching a subject that really excited him.  He tuned in, listened, tuned out.  Even cracked a joke or two.  At first, he’d done it for the usual reasons people made jokes.  Which isn’t a weird way of wording a thing _at all._   But then it was really more about seeing Stiles’ lips work over his teeth before grinning.  Not before the little half-smile that he usually cocked for people when their jokes were lame which, admittedly, Derek’s were.  A sort of thing that said, “Look, I appreciate the effort, man, but you’re gonna hafta try a bit harder if you wanna impress a comedy connoisseur like myself.”  Sometimes, if he timed it _just right_ , Derek could surprise a real grin right out of him.  His eyes would light up and his eyes would crinkle and really his whole face changed when he smiled.  For a moment, the slight sadness that edged at the corners of his eyes would disappear and he was really almost beautiful then.

And then they were sitting in the Stilinski driveway but neither of them made a move to get out and Stiles just kept talking and talking and _talking_ and Derek put the Camaro in park and listened because he didn’t have anywhere to be and Stiles was waving his hands wildly as he went on about Van Gogh and how he saw colors and some other shit.  And then, in the middle of some segue into Doctor Who, Derek lurched over the console.

The general _aim_ had been to kiss Stiles _without_ braining him on the window and without breaking either of their noses.  What actually happened was that Derek hit the teen’s lips so hard their teeth clicked because Stiles’ mouth was still half-open and there were _words_ coming out of his face (stupid, _stupid_ plan) and their noses sort of mashed and Stiles jerked away so quickly that his head bounced off the window.

\---

After a pause, Peter waves a hand quickly.  “And then?”

Huffing a quick, hard note through his nose, Derek deigns not to answer.  Isaac does it for him anyway.  “And then, Uncle Peter, Stiles ran,” he says smilingly.

“What, and then you just came here?” demands the older man.  Again, the Alpha refuses to respond, but that’s answer enough.  “Oh, my poor, poor misguided nephew!” he cries, standing to take Derek’s face in his hands.  _“You_ need to learn to _use your words._ ”  He turns his attention to Isaac, who is eying Peter with a mix of distress and respect.  “It was always his problem,” he comments.  “Ever since he was a cub, I mean really, kids will tell you _everything,_ but Derek?  Oh, he kept quiet.”

Derek smacks his uncles hands away with a glare.

“See?” Peter exclaims.  “Just like that!  It was much cuter when he was a cub, though.  Now he really thinks he’s scary and that’s just _sad.”_   He smiles and ruffles through Derek’s hair.

Isaac’s knee bounces nervously as his gaze darts back and forth between the two of them.  His phone is out again then and he taps away at it.  “Who are you texting?” Derek demands harshly.

“Allison, Lydia, Erica, and Danny,” he murmurs absently.  When he stops, there’s a beat of maybe three seconds of silence before the phone’s erupting, presumably with responses.  “Um, wow, there are a lot of words here but mostly they all say that you’re an idiot,” this is met with a growl, “And you need to go talk to Stiles because he’s already overanalyzed this to the brink of death and… Danny’s saying that if he has to hear one more question about your possible motives he’s gonna go over there and rip his throat out with his teeth which is just…  Like that joke is beat to hell, honestly.”

“So, you’re telling me that the Pack has reached consensus?” Peter asks, feigning astonishment.

“Shut up.”

“And that consensus is on the fact that Derek really needs to go talk out his feelings with one Stilinski boy?”

“Shut up or I will kill you in your sleep.”

“Oh, right.”  Peter rolls his eyes.  “Kill me.  Because you did such a spec _tac_ ular job last time.”

\---

“So, are we gonna address the kissing thing?  Because I’m starting to think it was a really weird dream.  N-nightmare.  You know?”

As far as bringing up touchy subjects, this was not one of Stiles’ best attempts.  But it was more than Derek had brought himself to try in the past few days, so the Alpha doesn’t really comment on it.  He does, though, look at the teen like he’s growing a second head.  To his credit, his dark eyes don’t waver too much and he only stumbles ever so slightly against the doorframe right next to him as if the full weight of Derek’s gaze was somehow a physical weight.  The pause is long enough, though, that he starts to have doubts, apparently, because then he’s stammering, “Yanno what, that’s cool, I’ll just… like, go, um, home and, uh—“

“Stiles.”  The kid makes a noise like his brain is _actually_ screeching to a halt.  “What exactly would you like me to address?”

His eyes widen almost imperceptibly and he passes a hand over his buzzed scalp before, “Oh!  Well, um, that it actually happened?  For one thing?  Because like I mentioned before I’m kinda having doubts as to that and I would really like to know because it’s entirely possible that I’ve sustained some minor brain injury what with all the… Stiles-colliding-with-walls that’s been happening since, um… since we’ve met.”

Derek approaches slowly, like he would a cornered animal.  He answers, “It happened.”  He hears, somewhere upstairs, Peter mutter to himself, “In a manner of speaking,” with a scoff and he represses the growl that crawls up his chest.

“Alright, is this a werewolf thing because if it is it’s not like pack dynamics I don’t really get it at all and if it’s not a werewolf thing then I _really_ don’t get it, I mean why would you just randomly kiss someone and then just not talk about it like that is _way_ weirder than any other part of that,” he has to pause to take a breath.  “’Cause really I mean who does that, even freaky supernatural beings with bad social skills?  So I really just don’t get it and _wow_ I just said a lot of words.”

Fighting the urge to ask him when he _doesn’t_ say a lot of words, Derek counters this attack of word vomit with, “I did it because I wanted to.”

“Elegant, romantic, really, Derek, you’re killing it,” Peter quips somewhere above their heads.

Annoyed as he is with his uncle, the Alpha barely registers Stiles chewing his lower lip and dancing from foot to foot.  “ _Wanted_ to,” he scoffs, looking a little hurt.  Fear and anxiety roll off him and they stick in the back of Derek’s throat and his heartbeat is almost louder than his voice.

“Yeah, as in, I wanted to then,” he whispers, edging closer.  “And I sort of fucked it up.”

This earns him a kind of snort.  “Yeah,” he breathes, dragging it out into something like three or four syllables.  “Yeah, you should probably work on that.”

“Seriously, if the two of you don’t settle this _right now,_ I’m gonna throw you both in the lake.”  Derek could practically hear the older man’s eyes rolling.

“This would, you know, be like… the best time for you to work on that,” Stiles says pointedly and a little breathlessly as he moves to stand just in front of the doorway instead of leaning inside it.  He looks around dramatically, lips crooking a little sideways.  “You know, with me.”

“Good line,” teases Peter’s voice.

Chuckling just a little, Derek takes the younger man’s face between his hands and makes a bit of a show of finding the right angle before brushing a light kiss to Stiles’ lips.  He’s rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, a bright smile.  When he pulls away, he watches him struggle, eyes closed, for words before, “S-see?  Improving already.  Ah—Appropriate velocity, better angle…”  Derek laughs and kisses him again and Stiles wraps his arms around his neck, slotting their bodies together and kissing back with enthusiasm but not with much finesse, so Derek feels a bit better about his first try.

Something pressed alarmingly close to his crotch vibrates and, caught off-guard, Derek leaps away quickly and Stiles laughs, reaching for him with one hand and for his phone with another.  “Hey, Dad,” he draws out, unable to keep the pleased tremor out of his voice when the werewolf put a hand into his.  “Yeah, no, I’ll be home soon—yeah, I knew Scott was with Allison and therefor left me without an alibi.”  He laughs just a little nervously.  “Don’t worry, I’ll get a ride.  From someone who isn’t drunk or—yeah or a stranger, Dad.”  He pauses and rolls his eyes, throwing his arm into the air and dragging Derek’s with it.  “No, I was actually kinda thinking about making a quick run for meth before I got there.  I’m getting a little low,” he bites, smiling.  “Yeah, yeah.  I’ll pick you up a burger but you’ve gotta eat the salad…  Love you, too.”

The grin on his face feels foreign to Derek and maybe a little bit manic, but when Stiles allows himself to be tugged back against him it all sort of softens.  He feels the other burrow into his chest and sigh as he drags his fingers up and down the nape of his neck.  “So I heard this rumor that you need a ride home,” he hears himself coax.

 

“Mhmph,” Stiles grunts against his T-shirt, winding his arms around Derek’s middle.  “But _first_ I gotta get a burger to bribe my dad with.”  He pauses a moment and then, “Which, by the way, is totally a way to get out of jail—offer to buy him a good, greasy burger and curly fries.  But, um, then I’d kill you.”  He gives a quick laugh that the werewolf cuts it off with a quick, deep kiss.

\---

They’re back in the Stilinski driveway, though there’s more awkward silence and fiddling with controls and less talking.  Stiles bends the straw of his milkshake over his teeth before taking a hard sip, eyes steady on the front door.  His foot bounces, shaking the Camaro.  “So this kissing thing,” he starts suddenly, earning himself a raised eyebrow and what could feasibly be called a chuckle.  Bravely, he barrels on.  “Are we like… just doing the kissing thing?  Because I think we have real potential for a dating thing, you know?  Like there’s this old sci-fi movie marathon at the movie theatre this weekend and I think that it could maybe be pretty cool if we went—together—um, us, for, um, a date?”

Derek lets his mouth run out of steam before reaching over to stroke a finger around the shell of his ear.  “Yes, Stiles, I want to date you,” he says, making a valiant effort at keeping the amusement out of his voice.

Stiles opens his mouth to let loose what the other is sure are effusions of utter joy, really, but his phone buzzes and he grumbles as he yanks it out of his pocket.  “H—Hey!  What?” his voice rises a couple octaves as he speaks.  “I—well, yeah, that’s um, that’s me and _yeah_ I guess it’s his c-car, you are very good at this.”  He gulps noisily and chews his lip.  “I feel like—Dad, Dad, I feel like, um, in twenty seconds I can totally be in the house and we can talk about this and that way two birds, one stone, we discuss this thing and Derek leaves.  Cool?  Cool.”  He lets out a dry laugh and rolls his eyes at Derek.  “Yeah, let me just… okay, yeah.”  His call shuts off with a little blip.  “I don’t think he’s very happy that you were the one I found a ride with.”  He looks down and then looks up through those ridiculous lashes of his and Derek snorts.

“Grab the shakes,” he orders, snatching the bags of food out of Stiles’ lap.  Before he can ask, the Alpha says, “We’re having dinner with your dad, and I’m bribing him with fast food.  He can have my curly fries.”  He winks as he gets out of the car.

“No, no, see, that is what we’d classify as a _bad_ idea because he’s got a gun and _it tends to hurt when he shoots people_ ,” Stiles protests as he follows him, arms laden with milkshakes.  “And he doesn’t like you and he really won’t like you if you decide you suddenly wanna— _Hi,_ Dad!”

“Derek,” Sheriff Stilinski half-growls.  “Nice to see you not in handcuffs.”

Smiling, Derek answers, “Well, sir, they _do_ tend to inhibit driving so I thought I’d leave them at home today.”

“Ha-ha!” barks Stiles, elbowing him and nearly dropping all three drinks.  “Not the best time to remember you have a sense of humor, buddy.” 

“Son,” the man sighs, “Take those inside.  Derek and I are going to have a talk.”  The teen begins to balk but when he sees that not even Derek is going to back him up he gives it up as lost and storms inside, grumbling loudly about cranky old men who will definitely have to do their own damn research next time they need help.  “Look, in case my sentiments weren’t known before this, I don’t really like that my son spends so much time with you,” he says sternly.  “You, or your pack of wayward teenage werewolves, or your creepy undead uncle.”  He pauses and the Alpha makes a pained face.  “What I want to know, though, is what exactly you think you’re doing with him.”

There’s a pause during which Derek has to find the right words.  He’s not like Stiles.  He can’t just _say_ things until he winds his way to a point.  His words are deliberate.  He tries to make them count.  His eyes never leave Sheriff Stilinski’s, though, and he feels strangely vulnerable, arms laden with food and standing about a head shorter than him because the man is still in the doorway.  “Ever since… my family,” he starts.  Then he pauses, swallows, and starts again.  “Since the fire, I haven’t really trusted anyone or really… _associated_ myself with anyone.  So, I meet this slightly obnoxious kid and he saves my life… even though he shouldn’t, and I end up caring about him and what happens to him.”  His eyes widen a little and he’s not really looking at the sheriff anymore he’s thinking because he’s never actually said these things out loud.  “I…  I care about him, a lot, and he’s pack.  He’s really important to all of us.  Even my creepy undead uncle,” he breathes with the littlest hint of a wry smile.  “We haven’t done anything, sir.  I would never push him into anything.”  The man looks as if he wants to say something and the werewolf finds himself wondering if he knows about the walls and that one time with the Jeep’s steering wheel.  He pauses again, collecting himself, and he feels his face heat a bit as he mumbles, “Neither of us are ready for anything more, sir, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to rush this.”

For a moment, the sheriff just stares and Derek knows that he’s gauging just how far he can trust him.  He likes that.  Years of police work has given him his own special kind of super lie-detector senses and, frankly, Derek would be more concerned if he didn’t feel scrutinized.  But then there’s a hand on the man’s shoulder and he’s jostled out of the way and Stiles stumbles forward, staring at the werewolf open-mouthed.  He’s wearing a look of half-astonishment—the kind he used to give Derek at the beginnings of pack meetings and he learned that the Alpha could say more than four words at a time—and half something warmer that makes Derek’s heart throb painfully.  The Alpha drops his arms, food gripped tightly in his hands as Stiles just _gapes_ at him.  For a few seconds, his mouth moves like it’s forming words that just won’t come out and then he throws himself at Derek, wrapping his arms tight around his shoulders and mashing his face in the crook of his neck.  Without thinking, Derek closes his eyes and folds himself around the teen.  He feels the other’s heart thrumming hard against his own chest, presses his own face against where Stiles’ neck meets his shoulder and inhales deeply, holding on as tightly as he dares.

After a while, Derek remembers they have an audience.  Maybe Stiles’ dad shifts and his clothes make a noise, or he coughs, or maybe it’s just that he comes back to his senses, but as soon as he starts to move away from Stiles the teen relents.  When they pull back, he’s flushed and he whips around to face the sheriff.  “I’m—I’m sorry, Dad, I wasn’t, we weren’t—like, I wasn’t trying to hide it from you or anything it’s just that we haven’t actually been on a for-real-date or anything yet because I don’t count stake-outs as dates because that would be _weird_ and delusions are decidedly _not cute_ and I was going to tell you because I really like this guy I just didn’t want to tell you and then find out _oops Derek got over my stupid face really fast_ please don’t be mad,” he babbles in one breath.  He’s left gasping.

The man doesn’t even hesitate to take his son into his arms and Derek feels a slight pang because it’s an intensely father-son moment and it’s like nothing he’s ever had before and he shouldn’t even be allowed to see this, he certainly shouldn’t be part of the _cause_ of this, yet here he was.  “I love you, okay?” he hears the sheriff whisper gruffly.  “Don’t ever feel like you can’t talk to me about something.”  Derek feels guilty for hearing all this, wishes for a moment he couldn’t because certainly _this_ was an invasion.  “Though,” he continues a bit louder.  “I wouldn’t have expected it to be _him._   I guess I was wrong about the clothes thing, huh?”  His smile wavers but it’s an effort.  He pulls away now and rubs his hands together, saying hopefully, “I bet there’s a cheeseburger in there with my name on it.”

\---

After dinner, they watched _Underworld_.  Stiles and Derek sat on the couch.  They’d started on opposite ends but then, by the middle of the film, the teen was curled up at his side, throw pulled up to his chin, as Derek’s arm rested casually around his shoulders.  The sheriff caught his son’s eye at one point and snorts, rolling his eyes in a very world-weary way, but Derek could practically feel fondness rolling off of him.  Sometime before it ended, Stiles fell asleep with his head on the Alpha’s chest.

Now he’s fidgeting with his fingers while they walk back to the Camaro.  He’s oddly quiet and Derek isn’t really sure if that’s all because he’s still half-asleep.  Then he blurts, “You know, I think I’ve been half in love with you almost since I met you.”  He ends it with some kind of half-hysterical giggle.

“Only half?” croons the werewolf, taking one of his hands.

“Oh, Big Bad can make jokes again.”

They stop at the driver’s side door and Stiles faces him almost reluctantly, walking until their arms stretch out between them before turning back to him and then stepping right up to him until they’re almost chest-to-chest.  Derek drops his hand in favor of copping his face with both hands, kissing him like he’s a fragile thing and listening to his speeding heart rate.  Stiles tries to chase him when he pulls away but sighs when Derek brushes their noses.  “We never decided when that first date was going to be,” he reminds him, voice a bit rougher than usual.

“Oh, good, so we’re not counting movie-and-burger night with my dad as our first date,” the other answers shakily.

Growling lightly—maybe a little playfully—Derek brushes another kiss against his lips before letting him go and sliding into the car.  “Saturday, I’ll pick you up at seven,” he states, smiling openly at Stiles’ look of dazed confusion.  He cocks his head slightly and then says, “Your dad’s starting to get suspicious.  You should get back inside.”

**Author's Note:**

> That was one hell of a journey you just took with me. I appreciate you for sticking around. It was supposed to be a drabble, this fic, but it rather got away from me.
> 
> Anyway, it's sorta my first Teen Wolf fic after weeks of trying to convince my friends that I don't actually like the show. I'd like to say that it'll be my last but the thing is that I ship Sterek so HARD.


End file.
